Less Than Ghosts
by Schmuzz
Summary: Coda to 'Goodbye Stranger'. There were over one thousand copies of Dean Winchester in that room, and sometimes Castiel talked to them.


It's Dean but it's not Dean, and Castiel knows that.

His Dean is on Earth – he's with Sam, and they're both ignorant of what he's doing; his Dean doesn't walk the glowing, white halls here.

And Castiel isn't about to kill him.

But of course Castiel isn't about to kill this version of Dean, either. He's been staring down the other for several hours now. Occasionally there's a break to conversation – when Castiel wanders too close, this Dean winces and tries to step back. There's no knife manifested, Castiel can't imagine ever doing so, and after a while this Dean starts talking about the angel tablet.

How he and Sam found out about it.

How they're going to bring it to Kevin, translate it and get instructions.

How they're going to seal Heaven up permanently, "And that means you too, Cas," Dean warns, an uncharacteristically scared look in his eye. And part of Castiel believes him – but he just can't buy that fearful look – so the reaction is his own method of avoidance.

The first replica of Dean falls to the ground, eyes closed, limbs skewed out like they're broken. Castiel relaxes his hand from a fist just as he hears heels clacking on the tile behind him.

"That took…" Naomi hesitates, caught between praise and disapproval. She goes with what is natural for her. "…Longer than I thought."

"He's not dead," Castiel says, though it might be reasonable to say that this Dean never existed – not in the sense that the other Dean does.

"Not dead? Look at him,"

"I just hit him. I've never knocked him out that… easily." He tilts his head. "Something's wrong. Unconscious bodies don't fall like that." _Dead_ bodies fall like that, of course. He supposes that Naomi, and her simulation as a result, doesn't recognize there's a difference. She purses her lips into a grim line beside him; her cheeks are hollow from the pressure.

"You could stab him now," she suggests, and Castiel feels his body sway away from her, even though he knows he can't escape.

"That's…" He hesitates, searching for an appropriate answer that might pacify her. "Not a situation likely to come up in practice."

"How long will he be out?"

"In my experience," Castiel says, the words come out without his approval, like most of the things he says nowadays, "Anywhere between several seconds and two hours. Though those are extreme ends of the spectrum. Most of the time it's closer to the latter."

Naomi continues to stare at Dean like he's going to wake up at any moment. He doesn't. "How can he be unconscious for several seconds?"

Castiel's response, again, is one he doesn't want to say out loud. "There are some reports amidst sexual partners of blackouts during intercourse, usually due to –"

"_Thank_ you, Castiel, that's enough." Naomi's rather free with her expressions for an angel, and right now her face is unmasked disgust. Castiel can feel some sense of victory in that, but it's an empty one, and a moment later she turns around and heads for the exit. "When he wakes up," she says over her shoulder, "You know what to do."

x

It takes this Dean approximately ninety-three minutes to gain consciousness again. Castiel took the liberty of rearranging his arms and legs in a vaguely comfortable position, and leaning him up against one of the monstrous pillars in the room, so it was as if he had started to doze against the trunk of a wide, white tree, Castiel sitting and keeping vigil over him. It is a parallel to the few times Dean fell asleep in Purgatory. Castiel is not sure which reality is worse.

The first thing this Dean – Dean number two, perhaps – says when he opens his eyes is, "Did I die?" And Castiel gets to his feet.

"Technically, you don't exist. At the moment you're copied sentience based off of a human being." He pauses, and decides that while this isn't his Dean, it's still _a_ Dean, at least – he can't kill this version, either, not yet, so he might as well attempt to show some kindness to him. "But no, I didn't kill you."

"Not yet," he says, and Dean number two has an accusing, hooded look to his eyes; guarded, and that, at least, is a familiar expression.

"I don't want to kill you," Castiel says honestly.

"Then why are we here?"

Castiel feels a large amount of philosophical musings rise up within him; it takes a moment to force it down again. "Training," he says simply. After a moment, he realizes that the restraint Naomi inflicts on him isn't apparent in this room – at least when she's not there to question him. It is, in reality, the first moments of freedom he's had in months. She might be monitoring him, but this is all a test in free will – _her_ twisted interpretation of it, that is. He can feel a bitter prickle of irony slice through him at the thought, but still – he _can_ speak freely here. Even if the existing Dean is nowhere to hear him, this one is, and that will have to do.

So he talks.

x

"That's fucked up," Dean number two says, half an hour later. "Like, really – I…" He struggles, perhaps, for some words of sympathy, but neither Dean is rather talented at that, so he simply continues, "Angels are fucking dicks, man. Some family, huh?" He's still sitting, and Castiel is tired of looking down on him, so he reaches his hand out. This time, Dean number two doesn't hesitate; look afraid or suspicious. He looks like normal Dean instead, and since they're alone – at least on the surface – he lets himself get hauled up and balanced with Castiel's help. He walks towards the edge of the white room, eldritch in its seemingly impossible scope and size. There is an end, one they can see, but it never seems to get closer, or, if it does, it's about three miles off, like the horizon on Midwestern fields. Suddenly Castiel misses that – Earth's colors; the dirt and the sun; the grass, the grease, the entire inclusiveness of it all. Heaven is sterile, boring… even in such an infinite space, it's claustrophobic.

Just when the window walls get slightly closer, Dean Two goes, "So, you're going to kill me, then."

Castiel sighs. He takes another silent minute to think about his answer, because no one's forcing it out of him, squeezing the words from his throat. Dean's curious, but he just stares. He waits – _he_ can wait.

Cosmic, immortal beings cannot.

"Eventually," he says. "I will prolong it for as long as I can."

"How long have I, uh, existed so far?"

"Somewhere close to nine hours. Naomi will force me to kill the Dean on Earth – but she wants me to do it of my own volition." He turns to this copy; his eyes, his skin, his stature – they're all the same as the one he's known. Either this one has learned what Castiel expects to see, or Naomi has made the adjustments herself. It's comfortable to have a nigh identical companion in such a place, to have someone to listen to him, but at the same time he regrets that nearly every minute difference has been brushed away; the uncharacteristic glances, the alien body language, as if those were the anchors that could help prevent his future duty.

"And after I'm gone," Dean prompts.

"I imagine you will cease to exist. There is most likely not an afterlife for you, either – I'm sorry."

"No, man, I mean," He shakes his head. "What happens to _you_?"

"Oh." Castiel pauses again. "I suppose that Naomi will create more versions of you, and send them here for me to get rid of."

"More? How many more?"

"However many it takes until I don't hesitate." Dean's eyes go wide, and he jerks his head, like he's not sure what to do with that information.

"And then she'll send you back to Earth so that you can murder Dean Prime?"

"That's the idea."

"But why?"

"To protect the angel tablet. To protect the remainder of Heaven. To protect…"

"Who, you? That's her brainwashing tactics doing the talking, Cas. This isn't you."

"It will be," Castiel says quietly, and he looks away. "I can prevent it for as long as I can, but – she knows what she's doing. She forced me to kill another angel,"

"Yeah but," Castiel turns back and now Dean is hesitating. "I shouldn't say this, but, you've… even in your _right_ mind you've killed other angels. I mean they weren't as cute and cuddly as Samandriel was, but – but you've never managed to kill Sam or – or me. The real me. No matter how bad it got." The words are comforting and terrifying at the same time. Castiel wants penance, but not Naomi's version. Maybe Dean's, instead.

"I don't think I'll be able to stop it," Dean twists his mouth, and for someone who was rather resigned about his soon approaching death, he looks sad. "I'm sorry," he says again.

Dean snorts. "Don't tell _me_ that. I don't exist, remember?" They start walking again. "How long will it take for this stupid reform to go on? Do you think you can get a plan going?" Castiel wants to say that with this sort of torture – reform, as it were – there's no way to create a plan. That's the point. He's been through the wringer in Heaven before, years ago, and it was much different, but the purpose, the outcome, was indistinguishable – individual thought was lost, the desire for 'a plan' was lost. All hope was lost. "Hey," Dean says, "I can't hear your thoughts, but I can still see you, Cas. If you're going to kill me you might as well share with the class." So, once again, Castiel talks, and Dean listens.

His response comes slowly. "You know, if your target was anyone but a Winchester, there might be a problem." Castiel tilts his head. "Come on, have a little faith in the guy, right? The me-but-not-me." He nudges his elbow into Castiel's side, like he's trying to get him to laugh. "Winchesters were pretty much made to scrape the bottom of the barrel and figure something out. If you can't save yourself, they will."

Castiel feels his eyes sting, and he wants to argue, say that this is different, this is worse than those other times, but isn't it always? And isn't this Dean's words always right, in some way?

He nods, slowly, and realizes that they've finally reached the edge of the room. Dean puts his fingers against the frosted glass, nails making a tapping sound that doesn't sound like it would on Earth. He turns his gaze back to Castiel, and he's smirking, a little bit, like he's still trying to get Castiel to crack at that stupid joke. There are lines around his eyes and mouth, and he wants so badly for those lines to be from Dean laughing and trying to get him to smile, but they aren't. And Castiel supposes that, for an angel, he wants a lot of things that Naomi wouldn't understand.

"Hey man," Dean number two says, calm and easy, like he's all done for the day and wants nothing more than to lie down and go to sleep, and Castiel feels infinitely worse. "Whenever you're ready."

x

Castiel can't bring himself to start up a real conversation until Dean number twelve appears. This version also listens to Castiel's strained explanation, and Castiel walks him away from the other bodies. The knife he was given is out of sight, and he swears he'll never manifest it again – just like he promised for Deans two through eleven. This Dean looks at Castiel's face, which is open and red rimmed, and he understands.

"It'll be okay," Dean says, and he touches his hand to Castiel's cheek, moves his thumb in a natural line where it falls right beneath his left eye. It's a gesture Dean's done a few times in private, and Castiel misses it more than he can begin to express – but right now it feels like Dean's wiping tears from his face. And… and Castiel doesn't need that reminder right now.

x

"Forty-two? Including the first guy?"

"Including the still living Dean on Earth, yes," Castiel states. He feels calm, but only if he doesn't look Dean in the eye for more than a fleeting second.

"Well at least I get a kickass number, right? Got any plans for Dean sixty-nine?" Dean's comment is shallow and empty, and he's staring at a collection of prone figures off in the distance. "I'm sorry," he says, after a while. Castiel has said sorry only about a dozen times more than the collected Deans have.

"It's not your fault."

"Eh, not your fault either," Dean says, and he wraps an arm around his shoulder and walks them towards another part of the room. "Sam and other-me will figure this out sooner or later. I mean up here, you must've been gone for months, right?"

"It's… it's possible." He shifts in his skin and his shoes. "Naomi's reality seems to function in a… pocket dimension of a sort. Or she can simply manipulate time. I could be gone for five seconds, five days, and it doesn't make a difference."

"_Seem_ being the key word here," Dean says, easily. His steps are wide and unrushed. Castiel imagines a bar, a rain slicked street, a slightly younger version of Dean walking in the same manner in some other, fonder memory. "If something this wrong is up with you, we've noticed it by now, trust me. You said Naomi's filtering your words and thoughts constantly, right? Not sure if you've figured this out, but angels aren't too great at playing natural – human-natural, I mean."

"And I am?"

Dean laughs; the fingers around Castiel's shoulder squeeze briefly for a moment.

"Cas, you're one of the most human people I know."

x

Castiel backs away from this Dean. "I'm sorry," he says. "It's not – Naomi…" Dean number one hundred and three puts his hands up, eyes flickering between his dead, bloody copies on the ground and Castiel's scared face.

"Cas, drop the knife." His face is serious, but not fearful, not like the very first time. He doesn't believe Castiel did that to him, or, if he did, that he wanted to.

Castiel didn't even stop to explain who Naomi was to this version. Not yet.

"I…"

"Cas, _look_ at me." Castiel does, and he takes a long breath, and the knife – shiny and clean every time a new Dean shows up – clatters noisily to the ground. "Good," Dean says, easing his hands down again. "Let's… let's take a break, alright? Tell me what's going on."

"I've told this over a hundred times," Castiel mutters. Dean glances at the copies of himself again – realizes that there's a lot of them there, and walks towards Castiel.

"Well, wait a while."

"Wait?"

"Like you did all that in the last five minutes?" Dean points behind him, and Castiel feels sick. "Uh, let's take a walk. Somewhere… else."

So Castiel tells Dean number one hundred and three everything – just like he has nearly every other time. The outline is almost identical – sometimes different Deans ask slightly different questions, or have slightly different reactions. Castiel clings onto those just to remind himself that this isn't a loop, not exactly.

It's worse.

When he finishes, this Dean is quiet for almost ten minutes, and then he says something Castiel's never heard before.

"It's not Tuesday, is it?"

Castiel squints. "What?"

Dean waves his hand. "You'd have to ask Sam – I mean, actually, don't. He might pass out and relapse if you do. But, it's before you were around. Um, he's mentioned it a little, I don't remember it. We never got around to watching Groundhog's Day, right?"

"Not that I remember, no."

"Yeah, okay we saw _What About Bob_ that time, I remember. Well, anyway, it was… after I sold my soul, before I went to Hell and, you know, got raised from perdition, and everything," he exaggerates Castiel's once used phrase. "And it was before we knew Gabriel was, well, Gabriel. We thought he was just a trickster."

"He did have a knack for that."

"He wanted to teach Sam a lesson, apparently. Something about learning to let go, that defeatist bullshit."

"What does this have to do with Tuesdays?"

"Every day," Dean says nonchalantly, "Sam would wake up at the same time, in the same place. We were on the same hunt, went to the same diner for breakfast, everything. The only difference was that every day, I'd die."

"Die?" Castiel blinks. "You mean –"

"I mean what I said. Die. Shot, electrocuted, hit by a car," He ticks off the ways on his fingers. "Choked, axed in the chest – that was Sam's fault – accidentally, I mean. And maybe a piano. Uh, no anvils though," He smiles at Castiel, but he can't return the gesture. "And then he'd just… wake up, and the day started all over again. Same day, different death. Only he remembered it."

"And… how long did all that last?" Castiel asks.

Dean shrugs. "He never gave me an exact answer. It took a hell of a long time to get even that info out of him. Over a hundred, probably a lot more. He kind of – kind of lost it. And, he finally tracked Gabriel down, forced us out of the loop – except some whack job got me anyway, and I died on a Wednesday. For six months, though."

"Six months?"

"Till Sam managed to track Gabriel down again. Didn't buy what his fucked up after school special was selling. Got him to turn back the clock, though."

"Six whole months?" Castiel says. "That… that's impossible."

"Time travel's impossible?" Dean says, casting a disbelieving look at him. "And _this_ isn't?"

"What Naomi's doing – it's powerful. Suspiciously so, but six months just… erased – he didn't change a past event, he just deleted everything spanning from that time period. I could send you and Sam through to different dates, and that was difficult. But he was moving the entire _universe_." Dean shrugs.

"I guess, but I think Sam was just hunting during that time, and looking for Gabriel, of course. Bet he didn't impact more than a couple people."

"So?"

"He only had to change things around for my brother," Dean says, turning so he's directly in front of Castiel; not imposing, just there. "So, small universe."

x

"When all this tablet crap is over with," Dean number one hundred and eighty six says, sprawled out on the ground, Castiel's head on his stomach. "Sam, you, and me, we're taking a road trip to Texas."

"Why?"

"Have you ever been to Texas?"

"Not on a… scenic visit."

"Well, in my experience, barbecue is in the top ten ways to get rid of post traumatic stress. And I haven't been to Austin in a really long time. I'm due." His fingers curl placidly in Castiel's thick hair, and sometimes he runs them through, like he's trying to soothe his thoughts, but can't get any closer than his scalp. Castiel, still, can close his eyes when Dean does it long enough, and he's almost restful again.

"How are their burgers?" Castiel asks, after a while. Dean jolts under him, muscles in his abdomen bunching in surprise – he might have guessed Castiel was asleep, or something close to it.

"Fuckin' _awesome_," Dean says, his voice warm, and Castiel, for the first time in nearly eighty Deans, is able to smile.

x

Dean number four hundred and five asks if Castiel has any powers here.

"Usual strength and agility," Castiel says. "Anything else I never really tried. Or _could_ try."

"Naomi doesn't want a fair fight, right. Guess that explains why you can't zap out of this place."

"I wish I could."

"I know," Dean tells him. His voice is soft. "But – but here it's different, right?" He touches Castiel's shoulders, rests his hands on them. "Like, she must give you _some_ of your powers at least – because that's what you'd get on Earth."

"I… suppose. But not enough to leave. Or kill her," he says. He wonders if Naomi heard that, but supposes that she doesn't care.

"Yeah but, other things. Like manifestation. Nothing weird about that."

"Why? Do we need something?"

"Well, if we're going to be here a while," Dean offers, taking a seat on the polished white tile, "Might as well do something fun."

x

Deans number four hundred and five through four hundred and thirteen play cards with him. He ends up learning blackjack, poker, old maid, Go Fish, BS, some rudimentary remake of Uno, and, upon four thirteen's request, a short game of strip poker ensues. It's the first time Naomi appears after he knocked Dean number two out. Castiel can't manifest cards anymore, but he has an entertaining story to tell several Deans after. They all mutually congratulate him.

x

After Castiel slits the throat of Dean number six hundred and thirty six, the blade is always in his hand.

x

Dean number seven hundred and fifty five manifests, and asks about the bodies, but Castiel can't bring himself to answer this time. This one ends up running away, and when six hundred and fifty six shows up after him, steps echoing cautiously behind him, worriedly calling out his name, Castiel just points to one long trail of blood, and a body slumped in the very corner of the room. He tells this Dean he's sorry, he tells him he's being forced, but six hundred and fifty six just stares, and doesn't speak.

Castiel doesn't wait for him to.

x

Castiel doesn't wait for a very long time.

x

Dean number eight hundred and twenty-seven's head is in Castiel's lap. Its face is gentle enough it could have been sleeping. He had been sleeping, actually, curled up around the slain bodies of the other copies. There's blood on his cheeks from where he had covered himself, using the same dirty survival tactics he had learned in purgatory to hide away for nearly two days.

The rest of Dean number eight hundred and twenty seven's body is scattered roughly three feet away.

x

Castiel is tired. Dean number nine hundred and ninety nine is tired, too. In every direction he looks, there's a body. Most of them are messy; there was too much of a fight, too much of a struggle between some of the copies. He knows this exhaustion is a mental barrier – it won't last long. Soon he'll be as susceptible to outside interferences as a stone. He'll keep going until something breaks him.

Dean number nine hundred and ninety nine stumbles over a corpse with a surprised shout – its mouth is closed, eyes open. This dead copy stares up at Castiel, like it might be waiting for _him,_ instead. Blood stains the palm pressed to its heart, and the angle of his limbs are everything you'd expect from a man who slowly bled to death.

"Cas," the current Dean gasps out, scrabbling, kicking the legs of this body away from him until the prone copy is tipped on its side. "Cas, this isn't you. I know you. I'm Dean, remember? Dean?"

A lot of the Deans before this one – most of the nine hundreds – had tried to fight. They had pocket knives in their clothes; they had fists, and angry, biting words. Castiel takes another step closer to number nine hundred and ninety nine, and the replica slumps further, close to the floor.

"I know you're Dean," Castiel says, calmly. This version blinks up at him. "You're all Dean."

Dean looks around them again; they're stuck amidst the bodies, now. A place Castiel tried so hard not to go, once. Dean swallows, and stares off into the distance as Castiel looms over him. Castiel shouldn't pause like this, he really shouldn't, but he's just tired.

"So much for team free will, huh?" Dean whispers. His eyes flash up to Castiel's dull ones. These Deans don't possess a soul – nothing compared to the original, at least. But Castiel hesitates because the terror painted on nine hundred and ninety nine's face has drained away. He's still sitting, but casual now. He's resigned, just like Dean number two had been, way in the beginning.

Dean number two was always the worst.

Second worst, at least.

"Remember when we had that?" Dean seems to be asking himself more than Castiel. "I mean maybe _I_ don't remember. Either it's Tuesday somewhere or… whatever. This could be a weird dream."

"This isn't a dream," Castiel says.

"You sure?" Dean replies. The adrenaline is spent from his body, and he yawns. "Do angels dream?"

Castiel could kill him – should kill him, get it over with.

He doesn't move. He doesn't answer the question. So Dean asks another one.

"Does this get old for you?" Dean inquires, curious.

"It's my job to do this,"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. I mean, everyone who ends up dying around us. You ever wish you could've… done something different?" He looks up at Castiel and sighs. "Probably not." Castiel recognizes the abstract idea of wishing for something… he remembers wishing for things, in fact. They've been taken away now, by Naomi, by heaven, and he should feel mad, betrayed, but he just feels empty. That's all he _can_ feel.

But this emptiness hurts. And that's something.

"How many more?" Dean asks, once he sees Castiel isn't about to offer up anything else to the conversation.

"However many it takes." He pauses, thinks. He shouldn't have to think about this, but he says, after another few seconds, "Not too many more, I imagine."

"It's heaven you're working for, right?"

"Yes,"

"Well, you know, brainwashing. They do a bang up job there. Tell the guy upstairs props on the, uh, realistic atmosphere he's got going on here – seriously is there a date on this place? I'm getting a real malicious angel vibe here and it's not Lucifer's fault this time."

"Her name is Naomi."

"'Scuse me?"

"The 'guy upstairs' to who you're referring to – her name is Naomi."

Dean squints at him. "What, like the stripper from _Showgirls_?" Roughly thirty other Deans made the same joke.

"No," Castiel replies, leaning down to in front of the current copy.

"Man," Dean number nine hundred and ninety nine's eyes flash to the sparkling metal of Castiel's knife. His hands twist on the ground, into fists, but he doesn't move besides that. Castiel assumes that he might have twisted an ankle, literally tripping over himself – he knows he won't be able to run forever. "I really liked you better after you stopped being a dick, you know, Cas?"

And Castiel almost wishes he knew, too.

**xxxx**


End file.
